


Messing About In Boats

by flawedamythyst



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 20:08:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10316030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: It takes three separate incidents in boats for Watson to realise the connection.Written for Come_At_Once, for the prompt 'messing about in boats'.





	

It was not until Holmes pointed it out that I realised the connection between the incidents that I am about to relate, but I believe Holmes was aware of it from the very first occasion, during the steamboat chase after Jonathan Small.

I was aware, even then, that it had got my blood up without exhausting me as a similar chase on foot would have done and the sway of the police launch below my feet and the thrum of her engine had only served to further my exhilaration. When we caught up with his launch, it felt like a dreadful anticlimax not to have exerted ourselves more.

My emotions continued to run high as Jonathan Small was pulled from the river bank and brought into the cabin, and I found myself shifting from foot to foot as Holmes asked him his questions. I only noticed just how fidgety I had become when Holmes sent me a faint frown.

I did my best to hold myself in check in after that, but it was not as easy as I would have wished. I sat down, but found my hand stroking over my leg without my noticing it.

Holmes set a hand on my arm to stop me. "Watson," he said and gave me a quelling look that meant more than words.

I nodded at him, and held myself still. "I suppose my blood is still up from the chase."

"Yes," he said, then glanced at Athelney Jones.

“Let us both out at Vauxhall Bridge,” he said. “We shall take the treasure over to the young lady that it rightfully belongs to, so that she may be the first to open it.”

Jones had words to say on the irregularity of that but Holmes over-ruled him and, with strict promises to take the treasure to the Yard once we had done, we were let off the boat.

Holmes took my arm to lead me to the road, where he flagged down a hansom with enviable ease and loaded me inside. In deference to the cold air of night, which I was barely feeling, he spread a blanket over our laps, then instructed the driver to take us to Mrs Cecil Forrester's.

"It's an icy night," he added. "I would feel safer if you took it slowly. There's no need to rush."

"Right you are," said the driver, with a tone that implied Holmes was worrying too much, which Holmes ignored.

"I haven't seen any ice," I said, turning to look at the pavement passing us by.

Holmes set his hand on my leg under the blanket, which was when I realised my foot had been tapping across the floor of the carriage.

"No?" he said, mildly. "Perhaps I was mistaken."

My leg had frozen under his touch. He slid his hand higher up my thigh and the rest of me also stilled as anticipation surged through me. I realised as he glanced away that this was what I had been wanting ever since the chase had begun.

He glanced away at the buildings we were passing as his skilful hand opened my trousers and slipped inside, running gentle fingers over my prick as I let out a long, slow breath, and did my best not to look as desperate for it as I felt. I suspect, from the smirk that crossed his face, that I did not manage it.

“It is only a short ride,” I managed as he continued to tease my length. “You would do well to hurry.”

“Would I?” he remarked. “I rather think it is you who should be hurrying.” He did relent as far as to close his hand around my prick, stroking it as it hardened fully and I clenched my fists in my lap in an attempt to stop myself from thrusting up into his grip, which might have looked peculiar to any passers-by paying too close attention.

“There is something oddly romantic about a boat ride,” he said as he gripped me and set a rhythm that sent arousal surging up my spine and curled my toes in my shoes. “Even one as tense and business-like as that one. I suppose it's the lapping of the water against the hull, or perhaps the gentle rocking motion.”

I gasped in a breath, gritting my teeth as his hand tightened to imitate the motion he was referring to.

“Perhaps,” I managed, wondering how I had gone from perfectly fine to barely capable of managing words within such a short time.

His hands are skilled in everything they do but I think, perhaps, one of the things they are most skilled at is drawing pleasure from me. At that stage in our lives, he had had more than enough practice with the art to be able to bring me to the very edge of climax, and then to keep me there for several unending minutes until the carriage turned into Mrs Forrester's road.

At that moment, he tightened his grip, twisted his wrist just _so_ and remarked, “Of course, a carriage ride can be equally romantic, given the right motivation.”

I spent myself in his hand, almost swallowing my tongue in my effort to stay silent, and then collapsed back against the seat as the cabbie pulled the carriage up.

“Two shillings and six,” said the cabbie, and Holmes pulled his hand away from me, leaving me to try and get my scattered thoughts and rumpled clothes into order as quickly as possible before I was obliged to exit the cab.

That incident was easily explained away as a product of the exhilaration of the chase and I did not think about it again or, at least, I did not think about it any more than I thought of any similar incidents featuring Holmes and his talented hands.

The next similar occasion was some years later, when we were on the steamship Friesland. We travelled over from Vlissingen on her before the startling conclusion of that case, posing as gentlemen travellers who had received word of an urgent family emergency and needed to return home with enough haste for the mode of transport not to matter.

We were given a cabin below decks and told to keep out of the way of the crew, so I spent the first few hours of the trip sat on the bunk, watching the waves pass by the porthole. Holmes had a few matters to look into that kept him occupied, then he set aside the shipping manifests he'd been looking through and fixed his gaze on me.

"Are you feeling warm, Watson? You look rather flushed."

I turned away from the view of the sea and realised that I was feeling rather warmer than I had been aware. A curious tingling was running over my skin.

"It is rather stuffy in here," I said, adjusting my collar.

"Yes," he agreed, his eyes trailing over my body in a way that only raised my temperature further.

"Holmes," I protested, rather weakly.

His eyes darted to the door, which was shut and locked, then he stood and came to stand over me, setting one hand on my shoulder and the other against my cheek. "I think perhaps we should loosen your clothes."

"If you think that would be best," I managed, licking dry lips as I stared up at his glittering eyes.

A sudden, swift smile took over his face, then he pressed me back against the bunk, climbing to straddle my lap.

"Your comfort is of the utmost importance," he said, very seriously, and then bent to press a kiss to my lips before trailing his lips down to my neck, taking advantage of my loosened collar to assault the soft skin of my neck.

It was nothing he had not done to me many times before, but something about that moment made the sensations running through me seem more powerful than they usually did. I was unable to contain a quiet moan that made Holmes chuckle against my skin.

"You are always so delightfully responsive, Watson," he said. "I wonder, what sounds will this pull from you?"

He moved down the bed and set about opening my trousers. As I realised his intentions, the anticipation sent arousal into the pit of my stomach, hardening my prick so that it was completely erect when Holmes pulled it free. He gave it a satisfied smile, as if it was a particularly difficult case that he had managed to crack, and then bent to run his tongue up the length of it.

“Holmes,” I gasped, and reached out for his head, running my hand over the sleek lines of his hair as he bent to take me into his mouth. His eyes flicked up to look at me and I knew he was debating telling me not to rumple it, but I took care to leave it in place and then sent my hand to the back of his neck, and he allowed it.

His usual manner is to consume me with as much fervour and desire as is possible, sending my heartbeat rocketing through my body as I lose all control of myself, but in this case he was rather slower, setting a rough, rolling rhythm that it took me several minutes to match to the waves outside the vessel.

It was as if I were the ship and he were the ocean, submerging me with his strength and relentlessness or, at least, that was the somewhat fanciful thought I had as I lay on that bed, panting from an open mouth as Holmes worked me as beautifully as he has ever worked his violin.

When I finally came to completion, it was with a gasp of his name and a clutch at his neck that I'm sure he did not appreciate. He sat back, licking the traces of my excitement from his lips, and I could not resist him for a heartbeat. I sat up and took hold of his shoulders, kissing him as thoroughly as I could, seeking every last trace of my taste in his mouth.

“We have at least two hours before we need to be ready,” he said.

I smiled at him. “I have some ideas on how we can use them,” I said, and pulled him down to lie on top of me, letting my legs spread so that he could rest between them. I could feel the evidence of his own arousal pressing hard against my thigh and I was eager to see what use we could make of it.

I quite lost track of the time after that, and we had to scramble to set our clothes to rights when we arrived in British waters so that we could meet the police launch Holmes had arranged for earlier.

Any reader who knows my tales well will know that although I am not a stupid man, I am, occasionally, a little slow on the uptake. It takes me far longer to spot a pattern or put together a conclusion than Holmes so I hope you will forgive that I did not make the connection between those events until a third took place.

We had been several days in Oxford while Holmes studied early English charters and I took in the sights of the town and tried not to let my nostalgia for my own university days overcome me.

One afternoon, I was finally able to persuade Holmes to put aside his studies for a few short hours and join me on a stroll around town. We crossed over a bridge, arm in arm, with the sun shining down on us, and I was filled with satisfaction at my lot at life.

We paused at the middle of the bridge to look out across the river, where students and tourists alike were engaged in manoeuvring punts around each other.

"They are hiring boats there," said Holmes, and then glanced at me. "I wonder, are you in the mood for a spot of dabbling on the water?"

I smiled at him. "Do you know how?"

"Of course," he said, as dismissively as if I had asked him if he knew how to count to ten, and led the way across the bridge and down the steps to the riverside.

We obtained a punt and Holmes provided himself just as handy with it as he had implied, poling us out past the tourists and upriver.

I settled in the boat and smiled up at him, admiring the strong lines of his body as he swung the pole. The boat gently swayed beneath me and I felt an unmistakable arousal build up in the base of my stomach, particularly when Holmes paused to remove his jacket as the exercise warmed him.

He moved the boat along at a fair speed, heading up the river until we had quite left behind the other punts. The banks on either side were lined with trees tall enough to make the river feel pleasingly secluded and I ceased worrying about someone noticing that my gaze at Holmes was filled with a mix of lust and affection that should have felt more improper than it did.

"Watson," murmured Holmes after we had covered a bit more distance. "I wonder if you realise just how you like right now, sprawled out in such a manner."

I glanced down at the way I had spread my legs out to prevent my wound stiffening, then deliberately leaned back onto my elbows, displaying myself to his view. "Perhaps you would like me to undo my waistcoat," I suggested with a raised eyebrow.

Holmes let out a low snort and glanced around at the deserted river. "Perhaps," he allowed, swinging the pole forward again and pushing us onwards. "Perhaps there are other buttons you could work on first."

I smiled at the insinuation and, trusting that he would not have spoken if there was a risk of being overseen, moved my hands to trousers and slowly unbuttoned them, keeping my eyes on Holmes's face and the way his eyes darkened.

"Do you have any further suggestions?" I asked, once they were open and my prick was exposed to his gaze.

“Perhaps you should take things in hand,” he said, “as I am too busy with the punt's pole to be able to assist with yours.”

I laughed at that terrible joke, which made him look rather pleased, and did as he suggested, slowing stroking myself until I was hard. “I do hope you're keeping an eye out for other boats,” I said between breaths.

He was still propelling the boat but with rather slower movements before, and a great deal of his attention was fixed on me. He glanced around at the empty river and then back at me. “It's all fine, Watson,” he said. “I won't let you come to any harm. In fact, perhaps a more secluded spot might be worth finding.”

He had his eyes fixed on something in front of the punt, so I raised myself to turn and look.

“Keep your attention on what you are doing,” he snapped, and I immediately shifted back to my previous position, speeding my strokes on my cock and allowing myself a shrug of apology in his direction.

He nodded back, then placed the pole in the water again, angling us in the direction of one of the banks. “Slower,” he said. “I do want to be able to take full advantage once I am in a position to touch you.”

I slowed my hand, loosening my grip. I brought my other hand up to run over my chest, down across my waistcoat. “Perhaps you would like me to undo some more buttons?”

“I think so, yes,” said Holmes consideringly, and I set to undoing my waistcoat and shirt one-handed, exposing my chest to Holmes's view and hoping that he was right about this area being secluded enough to risk this.

The sun shone down on my bare skin and I took the chance to rub a thumb over one of my nipples, sucking in a quiet gasp at the sensation.

“Watson,” murmured Holmes, then thrust with the pole again. There was a sliding noise from the front of the punt, and then leaves appeared around us and I realised he'd directed us into the draping branches of a weeping willow that overhung the river.

The moment the punt had gently bumped against the bank, he set the pole down along the length of the boat and fell on me, draping his body over mine so that he could kiss me with all the banked desire that had built up as he watched my show.

He knocked my hand away from my prick and took over its actions. “I think I rather prefer this pole,” he muttered against my lips, then kissed me before I could point out that the first use of that joke had been bad, but the second was unforgivable.

I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, feeling the shift of his muscles under his shirt as his hand continued to move on me. I shut my eyes as I kissed back, allowing myself to enjoy the feel of his body over mine, the sure grip of his hand on my prick and the sound of birdsong in my ears.

“Watson,” said Holmes in a rough whisper. “You look even better now than you did earlier, sprawled out in the sunlight.”

I opened my eyes to smile at him. “And now you get to touch.”

“Yes,” he agreed, and then, in what felt like a cold betrayal, let go of me and sat back, leaving me without either his hand on my prick or his body against mine. “I think you should get to touch too,” he said, pulling his trousers open and then pushing them down until he was exposed.

That was worth losing his touch for. I reached out for his prick, which was already impressively erect, and took a firm grip. He sucked in a quick breath, then descended to kiss me again, leaving me nearly breathless as I tried to concentrate on the rhythm of my strokes.

His leg shifted next to mine, rubbing against my own cock, and I couldn't prevent my hips from jerking towards the feel of it.

“Yes, like that,” he muttered, and pushed my hand away so that he could settle his full weight against me, thrusting his prick into the crease of my leg as mine rubbed against his leg. Sweat and the fluids that both our cocks were beginning to leak eased the way as we rocked together, the punt swaying with our every move as if encouraging us. Water slapped against the hull and I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, pushing up into this movements.

“Holmes,” I uttered, unable to keep quiet as arousal surged through me, “Holmes. Sherlock. I am-”

“I know,” he muttered, pushing harder against my cock and then capturing my mouth for a scorching kiss that I was barely capable of returning. “Watson, come on. Before the boat overturns.”

I started to laugh but could only manage a breathless sound of amusement as my climax overtook me, arms tightening around Holmes as pleasure rushed through me.

“Watson,” he muttered again, and then his own movements sped up, becoming choppy and disjointed as he gave into sensation, thrusting into my body as I clung to him, trying to regain my breath.

He came with a grunt of my name, head bowed so that his forehead was pressed into my shoulder.

For a few minutes we stayed like that, pressed together with a mess between us that I wasn't sure how we were going to be able to hide when we returned the boat.

After a few moments of comfortable silence, Holmes chuckled to himself, sending vibrations though my skin. "I suppose I should have known better than to take you on a boat in broad daylight."

I shifted to look at him better. "What do you mean?"

He raised his head in order to quirk an eyebrow at me. "Dear Watson, please tell me you have noticed the effect that being on the water has on your libido?"

I opened my mouth to protest, then my memory provided me with various images and I shut it again.

"I hadn't noticed," I confessed after another moment. "I suppose I am always too distracted by you to connect the dots."

Holmes laughed. "Flatterer," he said, with satisfaction, and ran his fingers through my hair.

After that occasion, I took rather more notice of the way the gentle rock of a boat excited my lust, and did my best to control it. Knowing that Holmes was just as aware of it as I was made that difficult, however, particularly as he could not always be relied on not to encourage me.

It was not until we retired that I realised just how much my little peculiarity had come to affect him as well, either through force of long exposure or through mental association.

We bought a cottage together on a cliff over-looking a beach, and settled into retirement as well as we could with Scotland Yard still calling us on the telephone and the new residents of 221B forwarding on the piles of post that came in asking for Holmes's assistance. It was in the second month we were there that Holmes came back from a walk through the village with a wild look in his eyes.

"Watson," he announced. "I have done something that may be rather ill-advised, but which I hope will bring us a great deal of pleasure over the next few years."

"Indeed?"

"I have bought a small sailing vessel, and engaged a local fisherman to show me how to handle her," he said. "I believe it will only take a few lessons for me to be proficient enough to take you off on short trips, perhaps to one or two of the secluded bays in the area."

"Oh," I said, a shot of lust running through me at the thought. "Holmes. That may be the best idea you have ever had."

Holmes beamed at me. "I rather thought so."


End file.
